


Moonlight

by bellinibeignet



Series: It's Easy to Remember [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:09:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellinibeignet/pseuds/bellinibeignet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the very beginning, one thing was for certain: Arthur wanted Eames to fuck him, and Eames was more than ready to oblige when the time came. How could either of them know that one night under the moonlight would lead to love?</p><p>In which Arthur gets antsy, Eames knows a lot about waffles, and neither of them knew what the hell they were getting into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> This SHOULD be the last piece before the finale! Only proper to give you the beginning right before the end.
> 
> For non-readers of the verse: Some pieces in the very beginning are particularly for people who've been around since the beginning, but this is ultimately First Time Porn!
> 
> For readers of the verse: I know you've been waiting for this moment. This is another sort of ode to Arthur. There is a lot of introspective work going on, which is to give you small preparation for the finale! So I hope you love it.

 

\---

There were a lot of things that made Arthur _Arthur_.

He didn’t fidget. He didn’t stall unless necessary. His clarity and poise were definitive, and little to nothing could displace his coolness. In fact, he would much rather face a problem head-on than let it fester and implode. He got the disposition for strong will from his mother, who pinched him every time he became antsy, telling him that the best way to insure crippling fear was to let his body make decisions instead of his mind.

And all of those things – all of them – were deteriorating by way of his desperation (ahem, _desire_ )to fuck Eames.

As he let his eyes glance between the empty living room of the hotel suite – strewn pillows, scraps of notes, closed PASIV case, empty beer bottles, the television on, but muted - he thumbed the screen of his smart phone, skirting Eames’ name with a dancing thumb, feeling shy despite there being nobody in the room. Just him and his distractions.

Yes. Fear – or something like it – had grown in his mind, and he’d give _anything_ for his mother’s wisdom to kick in, for his body to take charge. Because these feelings of nervousness and skepticism weren’t rational. Not when it came to Eames. Or any man, really. Eames the Forger was just another guy, and Arthur learned long ago that there were much scarier things than men. Arthur was smart, cunning above all else, and he could even account his attractiveness as a tool; it took quite a lot for him to feel cornered, threatened.

However, sitting in the plush lazy-boy that he’d deemed his ‘spot’ when he’d settled in two weeks ago, he was questioning his resolve, measuring his audacity. Because he was telling himself lies. Eames wasn’t _just another guy_. Just _another guy_ wouldn’t make Arthur restless, awake at night, desperate for distraction so he could slip into daydreams.

Christ…

It was common knowledge across the dreaming community that Mr. Eames was gay, although it hadn’t been at first. He wasn’t particularly camp, but he wasn’t overcompensating with manliness and bravado either, and that was enough to make him a bit mysterious. He was average height with a military man’s body, but a bit flamboyant in his style of odd patterns and high-waist slacks. And maybe he was too Elizabethan when he spoke, but none of that gave his sexuality away. And so, most would assume him straight, because that was just how things worked.

Just like his talent to deceive the subconscious by co-opting whatever likeness he pleased, Eames had incredible control of his image in reality, and Arthur was envious of that.

Yes. Eames could con people out of more than just their wallets and secrets. In a single conversation, he could convey a free spirit, giving uncaring shoulder-shrugs at whatever opinions other dreamers had of him. Then, in that same conversation, he would correct any notions that had been misconceived at the drop of a dime. Something about wanting to maintain enough truths about himself to be perceived as an ‘honest man’.

And so, Eames always made it rather clear when someone asked him if he had a girlfriend or wife stowed away somewhere that he was gay, had always liked men, and, no, he had no boyfriend.

Arthur didn’t know this when they first crossed paths, but he hadn’t known much at all anyway. Eames had just left the military not too long before, and was making a subtle name for himself in the world of dream espionage. Most dreamers would waywardly discuss the militarization of dreamsharing, the testing process that was rumored to have ended in numerous suicides over the decade. But, Eames had _lived_ it, and, after his bid in the Army, he was one of very few soldiers to continue working in dreamshare.

Arthur respected Eames on principle.

That was before realizing just how handsome he was. The first time they met, it was truly in passing: a quick introduction while going to the same chemist to load up. Yes, of course Arthur noted that he wasn’t a bad looking guy, but it wasn’t until later - when they ended up on the same job and had a night of research in a smoky bar - that he realized Eames was… rather goddamn good-looking. And smart. As well as crafty, easy spoken, and perhaps a bit needling, teasing Arthur quite a bit. Something about him was so vulnerable and inviting, but Arthur knew that couldn’t be the whole truth. A military man in a job like this had edge, had a hard shell. He was paradoxical in every sense.

Arthur last saw Eames just a month ago. The Saito job. That was the first time they’d spent an extensive amount of time together, and any time alone.

And that’s why Arthur was thinking of dialing now.

During one particular night of working late, he and Eames settled into lawn chairs in a corner of the warehouse while Dom was off fighting his demons in a different room. And, as they sat there, Arthur kept his head down for a long while, sketching, resketching, annotating, and sketching anew. Until he could swear that Eames was looking at him, examining him. Or maybe they were just glances, unprecedented looks. Still, Arthur knew what it felt like to have eyes filing over him in earnest.

And once that gate was open, Arthur found himself doing the same whenever he thought that the slick con-man wasn’t paying attention. Because Eames was quite something to look at, there was no denying. Something about his scruff of beard and his full lips and that pink tongue, sliding across his lips between silent self-sentences. Something in the way his hips rocked when he walked, his strong body moving easily like a dancer.

(To be quite honest, Eames’ easy-spokenness left Arthur dangling from his hinges. Certain words or phrases would linger across Arthur’s mind, because there was something wet and warm about Eames’ tone, something… thick that left that small length of tenderness along Arthur’s neck aching. _Dear God…)_

While Arthur wasn’t the most humble of men, he didn’t want to assume that Eames returned the attraction. Arthur had always been able to pick and choose which man or woman to bed when he felt the need. He was aware of his assets, and his skill, as every good (great) Pointman should be. But Eames unnerved him, left him with tinges of doubt. So much so that Arthur had stalled this long.

The last of his small team had left the hotel two hours ago. Once he was alone, he’d mustered enough confidence to pull his phone out and openly feel the intent to call Eames, but that was where trepidation left him cold in his heels. For days and days, he’d let the idea fester in his mind – when the team left, he’d call Eames and he’d say…

But he was chickening out. For two hours he’d been distracting himself - thinking, watching television, surfing the internet, - phone next to him, taunting him…

There was one ultimate thought that made him finally click Eames’ name in his phone, bringing him to his contact card, showing two numbers.

After the Saito job, Arthur approached Eames in the terminal with half a smile. Eames offered a fuller one, and somehow, Arthur found his crooked grin charming; something about Eames’ few imperfections made him appealing beyond recognition.

Which was… strange, as Arthur didn’t have such flippant opinions about people. Especially not people he worked with - there was no time for that sort of thing. Dreamers were liars, and while they weren’t concentrating on stealing a mark’s secrets, they were nosing into their colleagues’ business. It was best to hold everyone at a distance (Mal wormed her way in, but that didn’t matter now), but Eames was a curious thing. Thinking about it now, he was curious about Ariadne too (for reasons he couldn’t understand), but most of his time was dedicated to wrapping his mind around the Forger that Dom seemed to trust so much.

Eames. Leaning onto his luggage cart. Grinning. Dressed in all black. The sort of James Bond handsome that you look past the first two times, and then that third time… it hits you like -

Arthur felt himself urged to smile fully, and he allowed it. Maybe it was because he’d survived the most difficult job to date. Or that he’d worked with competent people for once (minus Dom, if he were to be technical). If there was one thing he could say about the inception job, it would be that he was glad Dom was retiring, because he’d never muster the trust to work with the bastard again.

His thoughts were swarming, but Eames’ smile finally started to fall (How many seconds had it lasted?) and it unnerved Arthur enough to focus.

“Good work, mate,” Eames said, shaking Arthur’s hand.

“You too,” Arthur nodded, looking down at Eames’ single duffle. “You’re gonna stay in L.A. for a while?”

“Yeah. I have a few mates here that I haven’t seen in a while. Then I’ll take a bit of a holiday, I think. And yourself?”

Arthur sighed. “Not much of a break for me. I have a meeting here with another extractor. Then I’m gonna spend a few days in Boston.”

“Boston is home for you, yeah?”

“Yeah. Gonna see my mom – she keeps bugging me. Then, off to work again.”

“At least you’ll see your family. That’s nice.”

“Won’t you see yours?”

Eames shrugged. “We should trade numbers, yeah?”

And, just like that, Arthur was conflicted.

He already had Eames’ number. There was a disposable phone in his left pocket that held business contacts for any and everyone in the dreaming network. He could tell Eames, but that wasn’t the point. Eames was extending a sort of… olive branch. What that branch meant wasn’t exactly clear, and Arthur only had a few seconds to consider what it could be, and whether he wanted it.

Asking for a phone number usually meant one of a few things. One - the least of Arthur’s concern - was just to be polite. Eames didn’t seem the type to fake enthusiasm for the sake of politeness, and, if Arthur were to give himself the benefit of the doubt, he believed Eames enjoyed him (respected him at the very least) enough not to be disingenuous.

Which brought him to a second conclusion: Eames wanted to be friends, wanted to have an open door between them. Maybe they would meet for a drink if they ended up in the same city. Maybe just to check in and catch up on the dailies. This seemed the most likely.

The last reason to get someone’s phone number – and reason Arthur was most familiar with because of being young and single without time for a relationship –was because you’d met an attractive person, and the chances of getting them into bed seemed favorable.

Arthur didn’t want to presume…

In Arthur’s right pocket was his personal cell phone. This one only held a handful of numbers - his mother and half-brother’s, his best friend Arya, Dom Cobb, Mal (he couldn’t bring himself to delete it) and a few others he considered worthy (namely a Chinese take-out restaurant a few miles from his apartment in Boston). Eames’ number was most certainly not in this phone. However confident Arthur was, he wasn’t the kind of person who ran on assumptions.

He pulled out his personal phone with a small grin. “Sure.”

And now, here he was with his phone in hand a month later, staring at the surname with his finger hovering above the glass screen, trying to make a decision.

“Shit.”

Instead of dialing, he clicked the small envelope, bringing up their text thread, which, surprisingly, had quite a few messages like:

 

> \+ i did some shopping while in la. found a tie for 4000 bucks. thought of you.
> 
> \- i probably own it. in both black and silver.
> 
> \+ haughty prick.
> 
> \- i like to look good.
> 
> \+ i know. enjoy your evening.

 

And,

 

> \- i always wondered why they call it an english muffin. expertise mr. eames?
> 
> \+ we just call them muffins, dearest. although your people cripple me with french fries and belgian waffles.
> 
> -belgian waffles aren’t belgian?
> 
> +it is rather complicated. i’ll be sure to educate you one day.
> 
> -i look forward to that.
> 
>  

And also, a photo message (and the photo was now saved to Eames’ contact card).

 

> +i bought a new suit. wondered if you would find it dreadful. i like it.
> 
> -no tweed or paisley. a major step up already.
> 
> +so i’m ace?
> 
> -yes.
> 
> -and please, wear purple in the event i see you again.
> 
> +i’ll be sure to do that.

 

Arthur brought the phone to his forehead, hitting himself with a flustered groan, then finally typed out a text message.

> -how’re you?

There. It was done. He’d back into it (Jesus, no pun intended) and hope that he’d gain the confidence to just… say it. To say what he wanted. To not sound desperate. Which, he very well wasn’t. He was sure that there were quite a few people willing to satiate him for a night. That… wasn’t the point anymore it seemed.

Then, the phone started to ring in his hand. A phone call - not a text - from Mr. Eames. And, _oh_ , Mr. Eames. His photo filled the screen, and he really was a handsome fucker, dressed in a very slick grey suit with plum shirt and rich lavender tie. The way he stood in front of a mirror, taking a photo of himself, no smile on his lips, but perhaps one in his eyes _specifically_ for Arthur’s approval… made Arthur’s stomach feel tight and warm.

Arthur wiped his palms on the material of his slacks, then answered. “Uh, hello?”

The sound on the other side of the line was scratchy and loud. “Hiya. I was cooking and figured – shit – I’d just ring you.” A familiar clang of hitting a spoon against a pot. “You alright?”

“What? Yes. Yes I’m fine. What’s for dinner? Sounds like you’re having a bit of a struggle.”

Eames laughed, and it made Arthur smile. He had quite a nice laugh, very easy and light compared to his rather roguish demeanor. “Just fettuccini. Nothing too complicated. I… burned my hand. Got distracted. Nevermind it.” He paused. “Oi. Were you just giving me the piss about my cooking? I’ll tell you, I’m rather good around the kitchen.”

Arthur chuckled, pressing his finger against his thin lips as he tried to hide his smile. “Of course you are. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“No, you shouldn’t. I’m… full of talent, I’ll tell you.”

Arthur huffed. God, he hoped so… “I hear your talents are being put to use in a couple of days.”

He sighed. “Yes. My short holiday is over. A job in Chicago. A good payout that I couldn’t ignore. Is this why you called? Offering some expertise?”

Shit. Now or never. “Actually, no. I just finished early on a job in Toronto. I have a really nice suite that’s been paid for and I was going to stay here for the extra day and since you have to come to the States anyway-”

“I believe this is the most inarticulate you’ve ever been, Arthur.” His voice showed his amusement, and Arthur could see his cheeky smile through the goddamn phone.

“I was wondering if you would like to fly to Toronto a day early. We could… have a drink.”

“A drink,” Eames repeated after a long enough silence.

“Yes. And I’d be happy to buy your ticket for a red eye, and we can share the suite-”

“Arthur.”

“Yeah?”

“I can buy my own ticket.”

 

\---

 

Arthur had been horny out of his mind lately. That was normal when on a constant work schedule. Not long after Saito, he did an architect job in Seattle (he didn’t really want to, but he owed a favor), and then this job in Toronto. It was difficult bid that he’d almost thought of rejecting because it seemed more of a hassle than it was worth (a divorced couple, money, something about an engineering company outsourcing what-the-hell-ever, lies and greed – a bunch of usual), but money was money, and he was picking the team, so that was favorable.

Like a cock-hungry idiot, he tried to think of some way to need a Forger for the job, just to have an excuse. (Oh, shut up.) At one point, knowing that Eames wasn’t a bad extractor either, he’d considered bringing him on for that as well, but he felt foolish for even thinking it.

As the Pointman, Arthur was sort of a general manager for the community. He knew everyone, knew who worked best together, and knew how to negotiate funds. And, in all of his years, he’d never once needed to set Eames up for hire. Eames was like a free agent, or a very talented drifter. Everyone knew him, and he came and went as he pleased. If he wanted or needed a job, he’d call and ask Arthur for one. But he’d never done that. So it would be odd for Arthur to call and offer one.

So. That was that.

 He decided on Law D’Ontario as an extractor – a boring guy, but he got the job done, and his conscious was clear as a whistle, something that meant a lot more in these post-Saito times. It was a two architect job (or a one architect job for someone with incredible vision, but he didn’t want the hassle of negotiating a ridiculous fee, and he didn’t want to do it himself because _fuck_ he needed a vacation), so he took on Melissa Greg from Houston, and Rummy fucking Ryan (don’t ask). He set two weeks out for the job, but they caught some luck and finished just shy of that time.

And when he was standing in that hotel suite alone after the team left to catch their individual flights, all Arthur could think of was being touched. And – no – he didn’t want to settle for a few pulls at his own cock under a warm shower. He wanted to be grabbed at, kissed, moaned into, amongst other things. He wanted to feel his body release.

While it would’ve been easy to go down to the bar and pick someone from the crowd, there was a monster growling deep in his belly telling him that there was only one person who could satisfy both his lust and his curiosity. How Eames had become the face and body of his fantasies and hunger, he didn’t know, but that was all he wanted.

And now it seemed that he would be getting exactly as what he desired. Because Eames had said yes. He’d taken the invitation without any qualm or quiver. Somehow, Arthur’s anxiety had been all of nothing. How had he convinced himself that Eames would be a scary guy?

Arthur woke up late the next morning with his cock half-hard, and he did everything in his power to clamp his eyes shut and ignore it. The night before - after he’d spent his whole day imagining what Eames was doing and thinking about their impending date – he lay in his bed, watching the nearly full moon creep up to the window of his room and bring the white light in, allowing his hand to slip under his sheet and lazily rub against himself, because he really was dying to feel the pressure.

Truth was, he could stroke himself for hours thinking about Eames, but that didn’t seem very satisfying the night before or now, knowing that he’d have a chance at the real flesh and bone of the man if he mustered the strength to wait. And good things come to those who wait. Or so they say.

He wound up in the shower before long, turning the water as cold as it would go to freeze out his lust, then turned the faucet to warm, taking his time with cleaning every inch and shaving away his stubbly beard, all the while thinking of how badly he anticipated putting his hands all over Eames’ body, so framed with muscle and tattoos peeking from the collars of his shirts. He wondered if they would end up in the shower together. He’d seen Eames wet from the rain (albeit in a scape), and it was something notable, he couldn’t deny. He could only imagine Eames pushing him up against the tile and stroking him down until Arthur couldn’t think straight.

But maybe Eames didn’t like shower sex. Maybe he was traditional and would put Arthur on the bed, strip his clothes off, and – what if he was a lazy fuck? What if he would simply lay into Arthur and hump him like an adolescent? Or perhaps it would be the exact opposite, and his kinks would take hours to act out, paining Arthur more than pleasing him. Maybe he was energetic and thorough and – Yes. If Arthur were to continue making assertions, one thing he was confident in assuming was that Mr. Eames would be _thorough_.

In the bedroom, the LED light on his phone was blinking. A text from the devil himself.

> \+ should arrive at 7 your time. i’ll see you.

Arthur cursed, because it was only half of one o’ clock, and he was feeling ready to pounce already. He didn’t want to lay around watching television, or get prematurely drunk. He wanted Eames in the room. Wanted to be thrown on the first surface they could get to and fucked to the brink.

That, of course, was impossible.

He allowed himself a few distractions. He dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, ordered room service (orange juice and bagels), then settled into ‘his’ chair and decided to call Arya, his best friend from high school. Even if they rarely talked these days, she was the only person he could think of talking to at that moment.

“Artie?” came her airy and curious voice.

His mind conjured up his default image of her, only eighteen with full cheeks, sandy brown curls, and a brilliant smile on full lips. In her last Christmas card, she was married with a small child, looking nothing like the tomboy he once knew. He enjoyed the memory of her as the lanky sharp-tongued girl whose locker was next to his and whose number was the only one attached to speed-dial. Now, she was a wife and a mother, and her son was the spitting image, with lovely brown skin and kinky curls falling into his eyes. She was a woman now, just as he was a man.

Then, he realized why he’d taken to Ariadne so quickly. She and Arya had similar tenacity, similar names, and a ferocious femininity, even if they were physically different, and maybe that was why he hadn’t immediately made the connection. (Ariadne was more boyish although her style was feminine, and Arya was the definition of ethereal but hadn’t worn anything outside of t-shirt and jeans until their prom night)

“Hey Ya,” he answered, smiling. “How are you?”

“I’m wonderful. God, I was just thinking – Jaime, eat it, don’t throw it – sorry. I was saying that… I was just thinking about you.”

“Really?” And God he loved hearing her voice. Something about it soothed him. He’d loved her in ways that would make no sense if he tried to explain it, and he was sure she felt the same.

“Yeah. Ma Laura sent a package for me – some stuff for Jaime – and she left me a note saying I should call you.”

“Looks like I beat you to it.”

“Yes. Yes you did.”

They talked and talked, mostly about Arthur’s work (as far as Arya knew, he was still an architect in high demand, and it wasn’t hard to describe a few places in the dreamscape), and Arya’s life as a wife (her husband owned a gallery, and painted portraits for presidents and professors in universities for money) and mother (her son was two years old now and growing like a weed).

Before long, they’d been on the phone an hour, and Arthur, as expected, found that the stress of anticipation had minimized. He was lying across the arms of the chair like it was a hammock – the way his mother always hated – and he felt like he was in high school again, Arya’s playful voice in his ear as she talked and talked and talked.

“So, nobody special in your life Mr. Way?” she asked. “No woman with stellar charm similar to mine, or a guy with a handsome jaw?”

“No, not exactly,” he told her with an audible huff of breath. “I _am_ meeting a friend – a guy – though. Tonight. For a drink.”

He could almost see her sitting up in her chair with a curious smile as she made one of those insinuating ‘ooooh’ sounds. “Do tell.”

“Just a guy I’ve worked with a couple of times.” Arthur said, trying to sound casual. But when Arya hmphed, he knew that she didn’t buy it. “God, Ya. I have so much pent up aggression for this guy. If you could just see him or hear him talk, I swear you’d get on your knees and beg for it, too.”

She laughed. “What’s he all about? Is he black? You remember that black guy who worked at the coffeeshop on Elm you always stared at?” She laughed again, and this was how Arya was – never staying on task, but keeping the conversation interesting nonetheless.

“Yes, I remember,” Arthur chuckled.

“You know, I’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if you and I fulfilled our pact,” she said with a dreamy sigh.

The ‘pact’ was simple: if they reached thirty and still found themselves unhappy, they would marry and have children – lots of children.

Ma Laura would just love that. She wanted grandchildren, and had always loved Arya. “She’s so lovely, and she puts you in your place.” Of course, Laura probably knew that Arthur would settle down with a man if ever the time came, but that didn’t bother her either.  “Until that day, I will imagine you and Arya have little brown babies together and living happily ever after. Like that Teena Marie and Rick James in reverse!”

He didn’t bother to tell her how that wasn’t exactly a romance, because it was more entertaining to have his mother make references that made little sense.

“Yeah, well. No brown babies from me anytime soon, babe. He’s as white as me.” Arthur chuckled into the receiver, and Arya made an audible pouting noise, which made him laugh a little harder. God, he loved her. “He’s English, ex-military, name’s Eames, is-“

“Eames? Sort of name is that?”

“His last name.”

“You are going to sleep with a guy and you don’t know his first name?”

“I know his first name,” he spat playfully, although, if he wasn’t as good of a Pointman as he was, he probably wouldn’t know it, and she’d be right to condescend him. “He just likes his last name.”

“Why?”

“I… I don’t know. I just… call him Eames. Does it matter?” He didn’t mean to sound so curt, but it came out that way.

“Sounds like a mystery man. Right up your alley, yeah?”

“To be honest, anyone would be up my alley right about now,” he joked, although he didn’t particularly mean it.

“You work too hard.”

“Did Ma ask you to tell me that?”

“Maybe. But it’s true. It’ll come back to bite you one day.”

“Doubt that.”

“Look, I need to get going.” She hummed with longing. “I have a kid to take care of an a husband to fix dinner for and…”

Yes. Their lives had changed. They were adults now, with responsibilities and no chance of going back in time, just to enjoy their friendship again.

“Don’t wait three months to call me next time, yeah?” she told him.

“Of course.”

 

\---

 

During his first day in the suite, Arthur paid the housekeeper to stay out for the two weeks that he and his team would be staying there. It was a necessary action, but one he lamented as the days went by and he discovered how much of a pig Rummy Ryan was. The guy left his empty beer cans on the tables and wet towels on the bathroom floor and was an obnoxious snorer (that had nothing to do with cleanliness, but the sentiment was the same).  He left his stench of cheap cigars and liquor on anything he touched, and always called Arthur ‘Artie’, which didn’t sit right with him at all.

Maybe it was a small blessing that Rummy Ryan left such a bad impression on the suite. As time ticked closer to Eames’ arrival, Arthur needed more distraction, so he wound up in housekeeping mode. He straightened the pillows on the couches, then cleaned the coffee table and breakfast nook. He cleared the room of all of the empty alcohol containers, scraps of ditched notes and diagrams, and fast food bags, then took it to the dumpster himself. He did the same thing in the bedroom across the suite where Melissa and Law had slept (platonically, Arthur presumed, but you never know with dreamers), and there wasn’t that much of a mess in their room at all. In fact, Arthur decided that the energy Rummy Ryan left in the room they shared was ill suited for whatever plans he had with Eames. He remembered Eames having said something about energies, and it was better to be safe than sorry.

So, Arthur moved his bags from his old room into the new one, and he realized just how determined he was to have a perfect and unadulterated night. Well, maybe not _completely_ unadulterated. That would all depend on Mr. Eames’ personal kinks, but he was trying very hard not to anticipate himself into another delirious state of horniness.

Ever the Pointman, Arthur called on his housekeeper, and asked her politely for a set of king sized sheets. She darted her eyes into the suite, asking where his friends had gone, and he answered with a hundred dollar bill. She did as he asked, then he set to the task of pushing the two single beds together and dressing them.

He huffed a breath, looked at the clock. It was suddenly time for high gear. He showered again, being sure to use a swell amount of his honey conditioner. During the planning of the Saito job, he remembered Eames perking up with a confused look and asking ‘Does anyone smell honey, or is it just me?’ Arthur didn’t own up to it, but he figured tonight would give a subtle answer.

He dressed in dark blue jeans – the pair that hung off his hips and accentuated his thighs most – a simple charcoal grey t-shirt that dipped into a ‘v’ at the chest, and a dark black vest just to add some detail.

When he looked in the mirror, he wasn’t sure how satisfied he was with what appeared. Eames was rugged and had an aged handsomeness that Arthur found himself attracted to. But, Arthur still had a youthful air to him, often making others mistake him as naïve or incompetent, while neither of those were truths. He didn’t think that Eames believed those things, but still. A man like Eames wouldn’t want to fuck Doogie Howser.  

He shrugged his fear away by rolling the tension out of his shoulders, humming away the dryness of his throat. This was all very silly, he decided. He was attractive by most standards, even if he could pass for a senior in college, and chances were that, if Eames didn’t find him attractive, he wouldn’t be on a plane to come _have a drink_.

Plane.

Arthur looked to the clock again, and realized that Eames was most definitely off the plane by now. In fact, he could be on the elevator for all he knew, and showing up to his door at any moment.

He slipped into his Converse tennis shoes, dabbed on a bit of cologne, applied another layer of deodorant because goddamn he was burning up – _fuck, this was all so very silly -_  then waited on the couch in the living area to wait.

And wait.

Until there were three careful knocks at the door, and then, after a hesitation, a quiet fourth knock.

He stood, wiped his palms against the thighs of his jeans, took in a deep breath as he approached the door. He took one more second to get himself psyched, then pulled the doorknob to find Michael Eames - who preferred being call just Eames - dressed in grey slacks and a deep purple dress shirt, rolled to the elbows and unbuttoned enough to show the slender gold chain and crucifix hanging from around his neck.

Arthur quickly noted that he’d never taken Eames as a God-fearing man, and the chain had always intrigued him.

And also, Eames was wearing purple, as Arthur requested wistfully in one of their last conversations. He wondered if this was done on purpose.

Of course it was.

“Hi,” Eames smiled, cocking his head to the side, and yes, Eames sort of reminded Arthur of a cat when he did those sorts of things, so curious and endearing.

“Hey,” Arthur said, smiling as well. He stepped aside and Eames came in, rolling his suitcase beside him.

“And why didn’t we have such a nice hotel room for the Saito job?” he chuckled, looking around the space.

Arthur wasn’t sure whether that was a real question, and when Eames turned to face him with a small smirk on that mouth of his, he knew that it wasn’t. “How was your flight?”

“Quick. I have a friend with a jet who was coming in on business, so I managed to hitch a ride.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “Who did you work with?”

“An architect from here named D’Ontario – I think you worked with him on that Congressman from Texas last year – and Rummy fucking Ryan.”

Eames chuckled from deep in his stomach. “Oh, Ryan.” He bent over to open the mini-fridge he was standing next to and he found it empty aside from a half-empty single serve bottle of tequila. “Wiped out all of the swells, yeah?”

Arthur had to take a moment to collect himself because the slack in Eames’ shirt had revealed the beautiful tan color and swirls of hair on his chest when he bent over. Yes. Quite clearly, Arthur could see his tattoo of the comedy and drama masks across his left pectoral – no doubt a personal feeling about his co-opting personalities in the dreamscape – and a glimpse of his nipple. And God, whatever soap or cologne he wore was already mingling in the air.

Arthur cleared his throat. “I’ll deduct it from his payout when I do the wires tomorrow. He’s an ass.” Arthur nodded to himself, watching Eames shut the fridge door and continue his observance of the area. Again, Arthur cleared his throat. “I was thinking we could go down to the bar for a few drinks.”

Eames turned to him, and for a moment, Arthur thought he saw his eyes drop over him.

But not in a hungry or salacious way. The blue eyes were just gazing – taking a swift drop down to Arthur’s shoes, then up again. Then, he finally said “That sounds perfect.”

The elevator ride was almost unbearable to Arthur, because really, Eames shouldn’t have been allowed to look so damn good, or smell like everything that Arthur wanted to be wrapped up in.

But Eames – oh fucking Eames – leaned into the corner of the elevator with his hands slipped coolly into his pockets, and he watched as Arthur pressed the button for the ground floor.

And Arthur tried to think of something to say when the doors closed, but the thoughts in his head started running into one another and he couldn’t make sense of them.

And Eames – who seemed to know exactly the disarray Arthur’s mind was in – just offered another smile, a charming chuckle, and they waited for the elevator to drop in a comfortable silence.

The hotel restaurant was quiet when they arrived. There were a few groups of people seated sporadically – mostly businessheads who’d loosened their ties and kicked off their pumps to enjoy a few drinks and non-work conversation. The massive windows on the far side were similar to the ones in Arthur’s suite, letting the remaining light of the sunset lay over the room with dark orange rays and soft grey shadows.

When they sat down at the bar, Arthur noticed that Eames looked spectacular in this lighting. God, he’d look spectacular anywhere.

Arthur fought the feeling of being flushed and half-hard as best as he could.

“I’ll have whatever you have on tap, mate,” Eames told the bartender in that Bond-ish voice of his.

“I need a bourbon on the rocks, and two double shots of tequila with sangritas.”

When Eames chuckled and shot him a judgmental look, Arthur rolled his eyes and faced forward, looking at their reflection in the mirror above the massive shelf of alcohol. He saw Eames eyeing the length of his neck, like he was studying him, or planning.

Arthur wondered if Eames could forge him already. All Arthur knew about the process was that it involved a mirror and, apparently, some bone for eccentricity or creativity. Whatever it was, it was only of mild interest. Mr. Eames was ogling the very spot Arthur needed licked and bitten, and it made him blush.

“I had a long day,” Arthur finally said as the bartender set the two double glasses in front of him, pouring the tequila in. “Besides.” He pushed one of the drinks to Eames, along with the chaser. “One’s for you.”

Eames gave a dry sigh and started to shake his head. “I’m not very good with hard liquor.”

Arthur scoffed. “Yeah. I don’t believe that for a second.”

The bartender slid them their other drinks, then walked on.

“And why not?” Eames asked, turning in his chair a bit so that he could give Arthur the full scope of his crooked and offended grin.

“I’m not sure. You just don’t seem the type that doesn’t enjoy a nice drink.”

“I never said I didn’t _enjoy_ the drinks. I’m just not very good at keeping myself unpissed after a few.” He raised the tequila shot. “Cheers.”

They threw them back, then chased with the sangrita, letting the cool tanginess coat the burn. Eames seemed to take it harder than Arthur, but Arthur was much more acquainted with vile liquor while Eames enjoyed beer, a scotch at most.

“Well,” Arthur said after catching his breath from the drink, and – yes – that certainly made him feel a bit less anxious. “We’d hate to see you misbehave.”

Eames shared a knowing look, then perched his elbow on the bartop so that he could support his head with his hand. “I should be saying that to you.” He pointed a finger at Arthur’s tumbler of whiskey. “It will be a shame if I took a plane here at last minute just to hold your hair back, darling.”

Arthur licked his lips, trying so hard not to smile, but still, the corners of his mouth turned up. Somehow, he’d crossed paths with a suave Englishman with the perfect body and a mouth people had nasty wet fantasies over, and he was going to fuck him before the night was through if all went according to plan. Maybe luck was on his side after all.

“I’m sorry,” Eames said. Arthur was staring at his glass now, trying to refocus, his jaw tightening a bit. “Some say that I need to mind my cheek.”

“No need to apologize.” He took a drink.

“Probably a defense mechanism.” He slipped back into his chair and draped his arm around the back of Arthur’s chair so casually that it made Arthur chuckle and meet his eyes. Eames continued. “What for? I’m not sure. Could be daddy issues. Maybe I never wrapped my head around how to be properly humorous.”

“I like your humor.” He did.

“Why thank you. I aim to please my audience.”

_God, I hope so._

Again, Arthur felt himself blushing, so he looked away to take a sip of his drink. There was no excuse for the way Eames could say the simplest things and wedge his way into the spaces of Arthur’s subconscious. Maybe that was his talent. He’d been in dreamsharing for years before Arthur was swept in, as one of the first soldiers. He surely knew more than most people in the dreamsharing community did.

“So, Belgian waffles.”

Arthur looked at him again. “Already discussing breakfast? That’s confidence.” And he let his eyes spill down the scruff of hair on his drinking partner’s cheeks, the fullness of his bottom lip.

Eames nodded in approval of his wit. “I meant… the education I promised you. One of our old texts – you asked about English muffins.”

Arthur nodded, chuckling because this was very very silly. “Oh. Yes. That. Do enlighten.”

Apparently, waffles were more complicated than Arthur knew. To start, nobody in Belgium called waffles 'Belgian waffles', because a Belgian waffle is actually a North American waffle. Yes, the waffle came from Belgium - Brussels to be specific - but there were several varieties across the country and Europe proper, from the Brussels waffle (crisp with big pockets and rectangle-shaped) to the Liège (soft and thick, sweeter ad rounder). If Arthur went into the diner across the street and asked for a Belgian waffle, he would get and Americanized Brussles-esque waffle with syrup, eggs, and bacon. "That's the shame of it all, really," Eames said, impassioned. "It is far better as a dessert - like a funnel cake at a fair, yeah? - not for breakfast." Eames told him he liked the Liège best, covered in confectioner’s sugar and sliced strawberries. And, really, none of it mattered, but because Eames’ was saying it, Arthur was entertained, far more enthralled than when his insomnia left him listening to Alton Brown on the food channel at three in the morning.

“And you have those… weird versions you put in your toaster,” Eames laughed, and Arthur was leaning back in his chair now, with Eames’ hand stroking and tapping against his back for emphasis to his story here and there. At first, the touches were so light that they could’ve been on accident. Or, even worse, Arthur could’ve been so thirsty for Eames’ touch that he was imagining it.

But, no. Somewhere in the story, Eames had gained a bit of confidence and started tracing sure patterns on the back of Arthur’s.

Arthur swallowed. “Eggos.”

“Yes. Eggos. Blasphemous really,” he mumbled before drinking his beer.

“So, I guess my only question is how the hell you know the history and differentiation of waffles.”

Eames nodded. “I’m a terribly boring and lonely person on my worst days. So I sit around and watch the foods channel on the telly.”

_Well._

Whatever expression Arthur made seemed to make Eames nervous.

“It’s not very sexy at all, huh?” he said with an unsure hum.

Arthur shrugged, deciding to toy with him. “I guess I imagined you going into local bars and scouting people for future forgeries. Laying on that English charm and talking about… whatever it is you like to talk about.”

“Waffles,” Eames prompted. “I talk to everyone about my vast knowledge of waffles.” He smiled, tilting his neck and offering those blue eyes as a fucking doorway into his soul. Like he was a puppy. Like every notion Arthur had of him was absolutely wrong. “That may or may not be why I’m single.”

Arthur couldn’t think of what to say, so he drank.

“I’ll make them for you one day.” He rested his hand against Arthur’s shoulder and didn’t move it.

Goddamn him for planting such a wonderful fucking thought of waking up to Eames making waffles naked in his kitchen, then fucking him so that they were hungry enough to eat them all “We’ll see,” Arthur said with a nod. He waved for a pair of beers. “I hate to bring up business,” he said after a short bout of silence. “I know you were a soldier.”

“Mhmm, I was,” he confirmed with a practiced nonchalance, taking his new drink.

“Were you one of the very first, or –?”

“No, no. As far as I know, the first soldiers were a year or so before I got hurt and joined the Dream Forces.”

“A hip injury, yeah?”

“So thorough you are,” Eames teased, but nodded. “But yeah. I was definitely there around the Red Year.”

Arthur cleared his throat. The Red Year was a string of suicides amongst the military bases conducting experiments with their soldiers. In the span of about a year and a half, sixteen soldiers attempted suicide, more than half of them succeeding. In addition, three other soldiers were killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“It was a scary time,” Eames huffed. “Never knew who was going to lose their wits. Eventually they got the Somnacin compound and the dosage right. Realized how sensitive it was to fuck around in someone’s brain, so things got easier. Still, not the best of days.”

“And you decided to do… this. Even after all of your trouble?”

“I’m not good at anything else.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. You know your way around Belgian waffles. Or Brussels waffles. Whatever.”

Eames smiled. He had a great smile. “I don’t want to talk about work.”

“All I talk about is work,” Arthur sneered, and he relaxed even more when Eames’ thumb returned to stroking a small pattern into his back.

And then.

“I know why you asked me here, Arthur,” he said, and Arthur looked at him. “And I know that _you_ know that I know why you asked me here.” He chuckled a bit at the brain-twister, but the smile soon faded. “But still, the question is… why did you ask _me_ here?”

And those blue eyes were full of insecure intent, and that effervescent curiosity he was always guilty of.

“Is that a serious question?” Arthur was a bit surprised, because Eames had to be smart enough to know just how bad Arthur was lusting for him.

In fact, Arthur knew for _sure_ that Eames was smarter than most.

Arthur wouldn’t dare reduce Eames’ intellect by saying he just had street smarts just because he didn’t go to college. Eames was well-versed, and anyone that held a conversation with him would feel threatened by his quick references. Eames was the mastermind behind the Saito job, and introduced all of the keys, even if Dom reaped the benefits. At the end of the day, everyone owed Eames their gratitude, even if he didn’t dare ask for it.

And, indeed, if Eames could pull off a heist as dangerous as the Saito job without breaking a sweat, he had to know exactly why Arthur invited him there. _Him_ specifically.

Eames shrugged. “Maybe I’d like to hear the answer for myself. And not just have the ones I’ve made up in my head.”

Arthur looked to either side of the bar, then brought his attention back to Eames, who was tapping his fingers against the counter top. Those large thick hands that Arthur wanted all over him. Now. Right now. “What answers have you made up?”

A wry smile found Eames’ lips. He knew that Arthur was afraid of answering. “You’re very matter of fact. So, I imagine you saw… attraction and convenience and respect. Perfect ingredients for…” He trailed off, letting the small flicker in his eyes speak.

Arthur nodded. “And… If I were to be extremely blunt, Mr. Eames-”

“Please do.”

“Ever since the Saito job, and maybe before, but definitely since the Saito job, I have gone to bed, and laid there with your face in my mind. You…” He shook his head, trying to purge all of the crude-sounding compliments from his mind. “Everything about you turns me on.”

That wasn’t crude, but still, Arthur fought his blush and broke eye contact.

“I believe…” Eames paused, then cleared his throat. “I believe I feel a lot thirstier.”

 

\---

 

This elevator ride was different. Eames leaned into his corner again, but his hands were clasped together in front of him, his thumbs twirling and twitching around one another. And they weren’t alone. So, Arthur had to move in next to him – so close that he could nearly taste the bit of alcohol swimming out of Eames’ overheated pores, hear the shallow breaths and see the distracted blue eyes.

Arthur was silent as they arrived at the suite, and he led Eames back into the bedroom, not daring to glance over his shoulder because he wasn’t sure how he’d react if he found Eames staring down his ass.

Arthur pulled back the floor-to-ceiling curtain along the giant window. The sun had been gone for a while now, and the moon was bright and full, leaking its light in, and there was almost a cruel spotlight on the bed.

Arthur turned on the bedside lamp before he finally faced Eames, who was watching him with those languid blue eyes, still standing near the doorway. What little air was in Arthur’s chest had suddenly locked in his lungs and become stale, as if he were hiking in high-altitude and hadn’t quite managed to adjust.

That was just how fucking attractive Eames was, and he didn’t need alcohol to tell him that – he’d only needed it to prepare for the idea of touching him.

 “You make me nervous,” Arthur admitted, even though he didn’t mean to say the words aloud.

Still, Eames gave a little chuckle, looking at the floor with an amused brow, then up again. “I make _you_ nervous?”

Arthur pursed his lips, because hell, he didn’t know why. He just nodded.

“Why do I make you nervous?” Eames asked, and his voice wasn’t pressing. It was still smooth, if not smoother, lower in his register like he was trying to convince Arthur of…something.

And, just like that, Arthur decided that Eames was the most attractive man he’d ever seen. No, he wasn’t the most beautiful or perfect by standards, but nobody – _nobody_ – had made Arthur feel so goddamn wrought with desire.

God, if only they could get the ball rolling, Arthur was going to let Eames fuck him until neither of them could lift a finger.

“You just do,” Arthur managed to say once he realized Eames was crossing the room to get to him, not stopping until there were only inches between them, and God, Arthur was two seconds from demanding that Eames tie him up and put that merciless mouth on every inch he could get to.

Then, Eames spoke, stopping Arthur from such a desperate request to make a request of his own. “I want to watch you take your clothes off.”

Arthur couldn’t stop the snorty laugh that erupted from his nose, and he blushed in an instant. “I’m sorry, what?”

Eames sat on the side of the bed and pointed at the window. “I want you to stand right there, and I want to watch you take your clothes off.”

Arthur felt shell-shocked. One: Eames had just been standing close enough to him to kiss him, to touch him, and he’d done neither one of those things. He’d left him basking in the scent of his cologne and alcohol and sweat, providing him nothing tangible, and _fuck_ , Arthur needed to touch him. And two: he’d made his demand in such a simple voice, like Arthur was used to stripping.

Then, Eames nodded encouragingly toward the window, and Arthur followed the direction as if he was under a spell.

“Wanna start a little music?” Arthur joked, kicking his shoes and socks off unceremoniously.

A flicker of a smile showed in Eames’ eyes, and God, he licked his lips. “No,” he said. “No music. Just me.”

Arthur huffed a small laugh, and then rolled his neck from side to side to try breaking his tension. _Fuck._ This guy had unnerved him, and while it felt good to be controlled for once, he couldn’t let his resolve just crumble.

There was one fact. Eames had flown into town with every intention of fucking. He wanted Arthur as bad as Arthur wanted him. And he wanted to watch Arthur slip out of his clothes. Wanted to be teased. When Arthur went to bed at night, he would under if Eames could feel the tension from across the globe. He wondered if Eames would clutch himself at night, trying to ignore that feeling of need.

And now, there was an answer. Almost certainly, Eames had a particular image he enjoyed forging into his mind – Arthur stripping out of his clothes – and he’d touch himself, breathless just thinking about it, hoping that one day it would come true.

And, just like that, Arthur felt his body lose a bit of its tension, and fill with confidence.

He started to pull off his vest, hesitated when it was about halfway down his arms – just to tease – then offered a small smirk as he pulled it off the rest of the way. He tossed it to Eames, who was so distracted that he didn’t react in enough time to catch it.

Next, he fingered the hem of his shirt, looking away with a false shyness, then lifted it up, slow, slow, revealing his slim hips and taut stomach and happy trail, then took it off, letting it fall to the floor with a careless drop.

He finally looked at Eames again. The man was sitting forward, arms leaning on his thighs, and his eyes were intent, taking in every second of the show. It made Arthur smile, gave him an extra dose of assurance.

“You want more?” he asked, taking a hand up and dragging it along his collarbone. He let his head fall back, seeming so happy to touch himself, and his fingers trailed down his chest and stomach to the button of his jeans.

“Jesus Christ,” Eames muttered, breathless, rubbing a hand across his jaw to keep himself situated.

Arthur offered a cocky grin before unfastening his jeans and starting to push them down, down his legs. When they were kicked to the side, he realized he might have enjoyed wearing more layers, watching Eames struggle to keep his chin from falling, but he was now in his boxers, and there wasn’t much else he could do.

His dick was half-hard, and with his eyes concentrated on Eames, he palmed himself, then grabbed just firmly enough to solicit a groan. God, he wanted to fuck, and he wanted to fuck _now_.

 “I,” Eames started, then he cleared his throat and sat up straight, shuddering to regain his resolve. “I think I’ve figured you out.”

“Figured me out?”

Eames stood with a careful nod. “You don’t need to be fucked,” he said, and he brought a finger up to motion Arthur over.

He walked to him, again feeling like he was under a spell. “Believe me, I really do,” he said, and he sounded so desperate, didn’t he? When he got to him, he grabbed Eames’ collar between a thumb and pointer finger, and they were so close that if Arthur tilted his hips forward just a tiny bit, he’d be rubbing the bulge of his boxers against Eames’ hip. “I really want to be fucked.”

Eames’s eyelids flickered, and Arthur was glad to turn him on, to make him fight against himself. “No, Arthur,” he whispered. “I think you need to be touched.”

Arthur swallowed, because the words sounded so wet, and yes, goddammit he wanted to be touched. How had he known that saying something so simple could be so incredibly true? “Are you going to touch me, Eames?”

“Do you want me to? Do you want me to touch you?” And he was doing it before Arthur could answer, slipping his hands to Arthur’s hips and pulling him in so that, yes, Arthur could press his erection against him and fucking _feel_ something.

“Yes,” Arthur managed to groan in quiet, even though he was fighting himself not to scream for it. When was Eames finally going to kiss him, turn him on his stomach and fuck him the way Arthur had been daydreaming of.

“I believe it’s your turn to strip” Arthur said instead of asking for what he was most desperate for. There was a long way to go, so he leaned in until their foreheads touched, tightening his grip on Eames’ collar and pulling him in just enough to tease him with heavy wet breaths, but kept him millimeters from a kiss.

“You aren’t finished,” Eames said quietly, sliding his hands around to the small of Arthur’s back. Soon, those hands were slipping under the elastic of Arthur's boxers, down, down until he was squeezing his ass, pulling him in until Arthur moaned at the pressure, at the feeling of his hands.

“I’m going to take your clothes off now,” Arthur said, pushing Eames back until the man was sitting on the mattress, looking up at him with hungry eyes.

Eames reached out and grabbed the back of Arthur’s thigh, dragging him up onto the bed so that Eames was straddled, a half-hard cock egging at his chest. “Do as you wish,” Eames told him. “And quickly, please.”

Arthur smirked, taking both of Eames’ wrists and laying into him until the man was pressed down in the mattress. Holding Eames' hands above his head, he pressed their foreheads together, and they were close enough to kiss, mouths hovering, but Arthur sat up immediately, leaving Eames in the noticeable dissatisfaction of being teased.

Oh, yes. Mr. Eames wanted this just as terribly as Arthur did.

And sitting there, firmly grinding down on Eames’ cock, Arthur was starting to feel that familiar control he liked to have in life. With every button he unlatched from Eames’ shirt, and every stroke of Eames’ fingers along his thighs, and every breath he took, Arthur was one step closer to true bliss.

“Sit up,” Arthur told him, and Eames did so immediately, letting Arthur slip the shirt off of his shoulders, his tanned and broad shoulders. Arthur couldn’t keep himself from leaning in to kiss the right one, then go to the other one and bite down on the skin.

“Do you know how often I think of shagging you out of your fucking head?” Eames asked, voice tight like he was struggling for air, like he’d been biting those words back for far too long.

Arthur pulled back and raised a curious brow. God damn if he didn’t want to hear those details. He could imagine Eames stroking himself into madness, his dick painted in stickiness, coming easily because he couldn’t hide from desire.

Perhaps Arthur was projecting.

He slipped his hands between them to unbutton and unzip Eames’ slacks, making sure to let his fingers press against him unnecessarily.  “And is that why you came here, Mr. Eames?” he asked, teasing but very interested in the answer. “Did you come here because-” He put his hand down Eames’ pants and grabbed at him, forcing out a weak moan. “-you wanted to put that cock to good use?”

Eames gave a mangled laugh of disbelief. “Is our Arthur a cockslut?”

Arthur couldn’t give an answer as Eames pushed his weight forward, flipping Arthur beneath him with a cocky smirk. He sat up on his knees, and Arthur sat up to assist Eames in pulling his pants down, all the while kissing and licking at the notches and soft hairs of the man's stomach. The skin of his soft abdomen was hot and smooth, quivering and hitching with every kiss and lick because, yes, Eames was breathing heavy as result of his need.

Eames laid down into Arthur again and kicked his pants off, eyes focused on Arthur’s mouth. “I swear…”

“You swear what?” Arthur asked, but he wasn’t sure how interested he was, because Eames’ mouth was hovering there, so red and swollen and wet, and they’d yet to kiss, and goddammit all, he didn’t know how much longer he could go with all this teasing.

“I have to warn you,” Eames whispered, leaning down slowly but surely.

Arthur was stunned still, both from such a daunting sentence and the anticipation of feeling those lips on him.

“I’m a bit of a romantic,” he said, and his lips were right fucking there. Right above Arthur’s.

“Just…” Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. “Just no four letter words, please?”

“You mean like ‘I _love_ the way your body is shaking for me’?” Eames asked, pressing his mouth against Arthur’s jaw, and God _dammit_ all, Arthur was going to cry out at how gentle that kiss was. “Or ‘I want to _fuck_ you until your body breaks’?” And Arthur was surely going to die like this, with Eames dragging his tongue along his jawline and holding his wrists above his head, not letting him touch. “Dear Arthur, there are plenty of four letter words that I’m going to do to you – like _kiss_ and _lick_ and _suck_ – until you’re begging for my cock.”

“Fucking do it then, Jesus fuck.” And he pushed his weight up to catch Eames’ mouth in a kiss.

Eames didn’t hesitate to dip his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, to get a taste of him, and Arthur bit down on Eames’ full bottom lip as soon as he got the chance, moaning into him, because goddammit he felt better than any concocted fantasy. His muscles, his heavy liquor-ridden breath, and his fucking hands holding tight like vices on his wrists and, fuck, fuck, fuck he wanted to touch him.

But Eames didn’t relent, even as Arthur fought against his grip.

“I want to touch you, goddammit,” Arthur gasped when he got the chance.

Eames shook his head no and moved his kisses to the length of Arthur’s neck, to lick him and suck him and bite him, until they were both moving their hips into one another involuntarily, grinding, needing the pleasure. With every soft roll of Arthur’s hips, Eames’ strength weakened, and Arthur took advantage, getting his hands loose from his grip and grabbing Eames’ ribs, digging his fingers in.

“I want you to fuck me,” Arthur croaked out, arching his back into Eames’ trailing kisses. “God, I want you so goddamn bad.”

Eames hummed, continuing to sink down Arthur’s stomach, his kissing becoming more and more wet and breathy, until he was pulling Arthur’s boxers down and letting his cock out.

“Jesus,” Arthur moaned, sitting up on his elbows so that he could see Eames, so that he could watch that gorgeous fucking mouth set to task.

For a brief second, Eames looked up at him, and Arthur felt his throat go dry in anticipation.

Then, Arthur was nearly blinded when Eames’ mouth was wrapped around his cock. Arthur groaned so loud that he would’ve been embarrassed if he had a conscious mind, but no. He fell back, unable to watch himself be sucked so slowly and tauntingly into pleasure. He could only shut his eyes and catch his breath and cry out to have more, more.

It wasn’t nearly long before Eames was turning him over on his stomach and kissing down the length of his spine. Arthur planted his cheek on his pillow and bent his knees so that he could grind down into the mattress with his wet and sobbing cock; he wanted it so fucking bad. He wanted -

Eames’ kisses stopped. “Show me,” he demanded, and Arthur truly hadn’t expected for Eames to be this controlling, but it was hard to resist doing whatever he said as they went further into the night.

Supporting his weight with his cheeks, Arthur sent his hands back to grab either cheek of his ass and spread himself until that taut notch of skin was in plain sight for Eames to admire. Arthur couldn’t see him, but he could hear his shallow breaths.

With a moan, Arthur sent his hips moving a bit so that his body was rocking from side to side, waving his ass for Eames to admire. He was so desperate to be filled up, and goddammit, he knew that Eames was going to lose his fucking mind too if they kept trying to hold out like this.

“Hold it just like that,” Eames whispered, grabbing Arthur’s hips. “God, I’m going to fuck you senseless,” he mumbled to himself, and Arthur was tired of talking, but then Eames’ burning hot finger was pressing lightly – teasingly -against Arthur’s hole, making him buck back.

“Fuck you, goddammit,” Arthur mumbled when Eames laughed and took the finger away.

“I thought you’d like that, darling,” Eames muttered, and before Arthur could say anything else, the finger had returned, wet with saliva, tapping against Arthur’s entrance again, this time doing it repeatedly until Arthur pressed his face down into the sheets to muffle his weak cries.

Only a second later, Eames had wrapped a hand around Arthur’s neck – gently but demanding – and turned him just enough so that they could stare at one another, and goddammit Eames’ eyes were so blue. Had Arthur noticed that before? They were a miraculous blue with darkness lining the iris, and they were filled with a blatant level of lust that Arthur was sure was reflected in his own.

Still, even with eyes as beautiful as those, Arthur took advantage of Eames being crouched over his body like this, and he planted his hands in the sheets, raised himself to all fours, then grinded back against Eames’ cock. And he did it again, because he wanted to feel his skin so fucking bad, but he was still in boxers, the bastard.

“Don’t hide your moans from me,” Eames finally managed to say, pushing his weight into him when Arthur grinded back again. “I want to hear you when I fuck you.”

Arthur nodded. “Fuck me already, then. Shit.”

Arthur didn’t have time to catch his breath before Eames had pulled away, returning to the end of the mattress to take Arthur’s ass in his hands and drag his tongue across his hole in one thick swipe. Arthur grinded back shamelessly, because, fuck, that mouth was so hot and wet and fucking unrelenting as it started diving into him. The edges of Arthur’s vision started to go a bit black, because he was sensitive to every touch, and Eames showed no signs of caring that Arthur was as hard as he’d ever been in his fucking life.

Arthur started to stroke himself when Eames knocked his hand away, and Arthur gripped the sheets, groaning, giving in to Eames’ torturous denial. Yes, he was welcoming the suffrage of a blue cock and white knuckles, welcoming Eames’ control over his pleasure, and fuck it was so good. He dared a look back, and there Eames was, face buried in his ass, grabbing his waist and pulling him back so that Arthur could feel that fucking tongue circling and dipping into him.

And then he was pushing that first finger in, just to the first knuckle, making the smallest (frustrating) slides in and out, forcing Arthur to moan and curse at him for being a tease, but _God_ it felt good to be touched.

But he wanted even more than that.

Arthur pulled his body away, and grinned a bit when he turned to find that Eames was disappointed to be forced to stop. Arthur licked his lips, staring up at him with expectant eyes. “Show me your cock.”

Eames gave an amused laugh before nodding and coming out of his boxers and kicking them away. He watched Arthur’s eyes glaze over with a more intense lust than there was before, the skin of his cheeks going flush as he took in the sight of what Eames had to offer him.

Everything about Eames was thick and full, so it shouldn’t have caught Arthur so off guard to find a cock so threateningly veined and lovely, wet with a bead of pre-cum, bobbing there as it twitched, waiting for Arthur to take control of it. And still, Arthur couldn’t drag his eyes from it, thinking of fucking Eames out of his goddamn mind.

This was too much. This was too fucking much.

“Put your mouth on me, Arthur,” Eames finally said.

And goddamn if Arthur didn’t kiss Eames from his mouth down to his hipbone, and finally to the swollen head of his dick, teasing it until Eames’ hands were buried in the back of his hair, guiding him impatiently.

Arthur obliged him with a flick of his tongue, tasting him, and Eames went stiff, coiling forward, pressing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder blade to get his balance.

Arthur wrapped his mouth around him, and Eames’ cock fit just enough to be neither disappointingly easy nor frustratingly challenging. And Eames was shuddering above him as Arthur delivered very short and wet glides, swiveling his tongue with enough pressure to force Eames towards the edge.

“Let me fuck your little mouth,” Eames mumbled, taking either side of Arthur’s face and starting to guide himself in at the perfect pace so that Arthur wasn’t left uncomfortable.

Arthur would’ve sucked his cock all night – how fucking beautiful it was – but Eames pulled away.

“Come on,” Eames nodded, and he sat up against the headboard.

Arthur went to his suitcase and grabbed the small black bag that held his condoms and lube for such occasions – what few occasions there were, sadly.

He tossed Eames the bag, then mounted him, kissing him. As Eames ripped open a condom, Arthur pulled back with a raised eyebrow, realizing. “You’re going to let me have control?”  He hadn’t even imagined this. For some reason, he’d always seen Eames hovering over him, guiding him, stealing his control.

Eames looked up at him with that crooked smile, then he dropped his eyes to roll the thin sheath over his cock. “For now, yeah?” he finally said, taking Arthur’s hips in his hands.

Arthur reached over to turn out the lamp, and the moon was even brighter now, illuminating everything from their scars to their eyes to the lubricant covering Eames’ cock, and goddammit all.

 He braced himself with Eames’ shoulders, and Eames was looking up at him with harrowed breaths while pressing up against Arthur’s hole. Arthur started to rock his hips down, slow, slow, because Eames was so fucking thick that they’d ruin the night before it truly began if they decided to go too fast.

Eames said something under his breath, sliding his hands to the small of Arthur’s back and encasing him, bringing him even closer, and the change in angle made the pair shudder. Eames’ mouth was pressed into Arthur’s collar, and he was moaning more openly now, his warm breath and vibrating lips making Arthur stir.

He was more than halfway eased down when he pulled back, biting his lip and starting to rock at a less hesitant speed, smiling when Eames dropped his head back and hit it against the headboard, submitting himself to the pleasure. Arthur slipped his hands to either of Eames’ stubbly cheeks and bent in to kiss him - hungry and wet - before letting out a shaky groan from deep in his chest. Eames’ dick was getting further into him by the minute, stretching Arthur out until they were wrapped together like Arthur was a firm-fitting glove. And Eames was guiding Arthur down against him, his dick sliding against the sensitive muscles lining Arthur's inside, teasing him, and God, this was just enough.

“You like that, yeah?” Eames grunted, biting on Arthur’s bottom lip, scratching his nails against the small of Arthur’s back.

“Mmhmm,” was all Arthur could manage to get out.

“Come on, love.” Eames pushed him all the way down so that they were fully joined, and Arthur’s moan was raw and unbitten, shaking whatever silence there had been.

Something snapped in both of their resolves.

Arthur planted his hands on Eames’ chest and started sliding up and down with a sure speed that made darkness fill Eames’ eyes, and _fuck_ Arthur was glad not to be the only one feeling absolutely ruined. He should’ve felt uncomfortable, looking so undone in the moonlight - his usual walls disappearing right before Eames’ eyes - but he just couldn’t muster the need to hide. No. He bounced up and down on Eames’ cock like he had no idea how to control himself.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Arthur groaned, moving his hands to grip the headboard.

Eames said nothing. Only kissed a small trail over Arthur’s chest and took a finger to the tip of Arthur’s cock bouncing against his stomach.

Arthur nearly fell over from that, and Eames grunted at the sight, because knowing that he was making Arthur break was enough to make him come alone.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?” Eames asked, grabbing the slender hips and forcing him to slow down, so slow that every stroke sent a taunting shudder through Arthur’s stomach. “Am I going to make you come already? Is that it?”

“Please don’t – fuck – fucking do that,” Arthur said breathlessly, but he had already resigned to slow rolls of his hips, following Eames’ control. “D-don’t touch – fuck.” Arthur was fighting against himself, trying so hard not to come all over Eames.

Instead he rode Eames until his prostate felt so full that a feeling dangerously close to orgasm convulsed through him. And Eames was encouraging him – “God, you come so beautifully.” – and then Arthur sank against him, crying out his tension as he buried his face into Eames’ neck.

“You alright?” Eames asked quietly, doing his best to keep from grinding into Arthur, letting him regain his strength, dutifully not touching his cock so that he didn’t explode and end the night.

Arthur pulled back to look at him. “Fuck.”

“You’re a greedy thing,” Eames whispered with a playful smile, and Arthur could only offer a shy grin. Eames smiled back. “Go to the window.”

Arthur was so put out from his orgasm that he didn’t register the command. He just did it, taking an dazed stroll into the brightest point of the moonlight, where he could look out over Toronto’s offering of twinkling lights and weekend traffic.

And soon, his hands were being held above his head as he was pressed against the glass, and he hummed when he felt Eames’ cock gliding along his ass, kisses and bites being delivered across his shoulders.

“Want me to fuck you so that the world can see?” Eames muttered against his skin.

Still, Arthur felt a haze around his mind, and he could only moan in reply, because Eames was turning his world upside down with just his sex, and he was due to receive more. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t anything as mind-numbing as this. He was never this lucky.

“Tell me, Arthur,” Eames said, and he was lining his cock up to Arthur’s entrance again, teasingly pushing in and pulling out.

“Fuck,” Arthur huffed, and he didn’t know how much energy he had left for whatever would come next.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you again,” Eames said, and he was pushing into him again, just enough of the tip so that he could penetrate. “Fuck, Arthur, say it. Tell me to make you come again.”

Arthur fought one wrist out of Eames’ grip and reached behind him, grabbing Eames’ hip. “Fuck me,” he moaned. “Come on. Fuck me again.”

And Eames did just that, sliding in to the hilt and letting Arthur encase him, as if he belonged deep inside of Arthur's body, as if neither of them should ever be connected to anyone else. And Arthur leaned back into Eames as if he believed the same things. Like he knew every single inch of Eames’ intentions, even if he very well didn’t.

And that was why he unraveled so easily, wasn’t it? Arthur didn’t know much in those moments. He knew that he felt good, and that there was something about Eames that tempted trust. Right there, pressed against a window, being pulled and pushed and grinded against, he was coming apart at his seams, realizing he couldn't remember a time where he'd felt so blissed. It felt nothing like being simply _fucked._ He was being _touched_.

Eames was touching him.

Arthur shuddered, feeling himself leaking, his cock ready for release. “God, I’m not going to last much longer, Eames – _fuck_.”

“Shh, shh, shh,” Eames breathed out, slipping a hand into Arthur’s hair and kissing the back of his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

“Come on, Eames. Make me come again. Make me come again.”

Then, Eames was turning him around, staring at him with shallow breaths. “I want to look at you,” he said, and suddenly Arthur was laying on the floor with Eames hovering over him, pushing Arthur’s knee up to his shoulder, and _fuck,_ that angle felt so good, making them tremble and groan into one another in unison.

“Keep going,” Arthur muttered when he noticed Eames seemed close to the edge. “Just… _fuck_ … come on, come on.”

Eames leaned in closer, kissing Arthur. “I will, I will,” he whispered, and he was so ready.

Arthur gripped his shoulders. “Touch me, yeah?” he whispered against that wet fucking mouth.

Eames didn’t hesitate to reach between them and take hold of Arthur’s dick, giving him a few teasing pulls. And Arthur responded by biting on Eames’ bottom lip , surely drawing blood. “Yeah, yeah, fuck,” he moaned out. “God, how do you – goddammit – how do you do that?”

“Just come for me, love,” Eames managed to chuckle through his own groans.

And, with Eames sliding in and out, in and out, and pulling at Arthur’s cock, and burying his lips at Arthur’s neck, grunting, Arthur came for the second time, spilling his load all over his stomach and crying out, body arching up toward the moon, feeling so fucking good.

And Eames instantly left Arthur's body, threw away the condom, and released his seed on Arthur’s stomach, eyes clenched shut, and _fuck_ , the guttural sounds that ran out of his stomach seemed to last forever, sounded so unlike himself, so raw and ruined as he collapsed his weight onto Arthur, who accepted it with a small laugh.

And, before long, Arthur found himself tracing small patterns along Eames’ back, listening to the heavy breaths finally becoming steady and decent. There wasn’t an ounce of post-one-night-stand shame, it seemed – thank God - and if he and Eames were stuck together for the rest of their days because of the cum on their bellies, he couldn’t give a single fuck about it.

Eames finally moved, just enough to hover over Arthur’s face. “On a scale of-”

“Eight and half. Can we please move to the bed before I get carpet burn on my ass?”

They laughed together for a full minute before Eames moved. “I need a fucking cig,” he groaned as he stretched his arms out, watching Arthur fall onto the bed like his bones couldn’t bear to hold his body up much longer. “Think I can smoke in here?”

Arthur grunted, face down in the sheets, then turned and smiled. “I think the ashtray on the night table means yes.”

Eames found his cigarettes, lit one and got into the bed, sitting up against the headboard. “You don’t smoke do you?”

“Nope,” Arthur said, and he took the cigarette for a long drag.

Eames grinned, taking it back. “Seems Dom isn’t the only one who likes to break his own rules.”

Arthur scoffed. “One: don’t mention Dom when you’re in bed with me. And two: it isn’t a rule, just a lack of habit.”

“Hmph.”

“You should quit. It’s bad for you.”

“Are you really in the place to make any demands after the shag I just granted you? You got _two_ orgasms out of that deal, mind you.” He laughed and muttered “’Eight and a half’ my arse” before taking another drag.

“Oh, the humility is blinding me. Couldn’t wait ‘til morning for the cockiness?”

Eames smiled down at him, took one more smoke, then outted the cigarette in the ashtray.

Arthur took a deep breath as Eames slid down the bed so that he was laying on his side, looking Arthur in his eyes, propping his head up with a hand.

“Am I staying here until morning?” Eames asked, voice quiet and unsure for someone who’d just inarguably given Arthur the best sex of his life. “I mean, is that still the plan?

“I don’t see why not,” Arthur replied, because he couldn’t very well push someone with eyes like those and a magic cock out of bed because he had some fear of sleepovers.

Eames hummed and they moved under the blankets, then close together, kissing one another because, yes, it did feel rather good to share a bed with someone, didn’t it?

“I’m going to pass out,” Arthur whispered, and his eyes had been closed for minutes now, and Eames had stopped kissing him, but their lips were still hovering.

“Mhm,” Eames moaned, and they fell asleep like that.

 

\---

 

The feeling of a warm mouth egging at his shoulder blades brought Arthur out of his dreamless sleep. He moaned into his pillow, then turned a bit to find that the room was still dark, darker than it had been with the moon shining in.

“What time is it?” he muttered.

Eames paused his kisses to look for a clock. “Barely five.”

Arthur whimpered in defeat. “I definitely don’t want to be awake right now.”

And then Eames nudged him with his erection. “You sure about that?’

Arthur groaned. “I’m so tired.”

Eames kissed his neck. “I apologize, but I must take advantage of this,” he mumbled. “If you’ll have me. It isn’t often that I wake up with someone lying next to me.”

“So this is that ‘romantic’ stuff you were talking about?” And it felt good to have Eames kissing him, running his hands all over him. How Eames didn’t have someone to wake up to every morning was beyond Arthur, but being on the receiving end was not a bad deal.

Eames was pushed inside of him for nearly a minute, offering very small strokes, both of them already groaning, before Eames cursed and pulled out, making Arthur give an embarrassed cry.

“I forgot a condom,” Eames muttered, starting to move away to find Arthur’s little black bag, when - _fuck_ \- Arthur’s sleepy resolve took over. Arthur grabbed Eames’ wrist before he could get too far away, and Eames knew his purpose. “Fuck, Arthur,” he sighed, kissing the nape of his neck cautiously. “You sure?”

“I’m clean,” Arthur said, trying to sound businesslike, but goddammit, Eames felt so good inside of him without barrier that he only sounded like a cockslut. He just wanted him – skin to skin, thorough and unadulterated.

“Me as well,” was all Eames said, sinking into him again, all the way to the hilt.

And Arthur lifted to his elbows, letting his head fall forward so that Eames could kiss his neck. Arthur was rarely this lazy or submissive – he didn’t wake up to sex often, either - but with Eames behind him and his brain still half-lulled (read: a sleepy brain for a professional dreamer was more conscious than that of a fully awake normal person, if you asked Arthur) all he wanted was to enjoy it, to sink down down down into this vulnerability.

 “Put your weight on me,” he moaned out, and Eames did just that, slipping his hands under Arthur’s body and grabbing his shoulders for support before grinding down into him with the measured pushes.

It wasn’t long at all before Eames turned him over and they came by rubbing themselves against one another, breathing and kissing and moaning into one another’s mouths.

They lay together for a long time in silence before Arthur sat up on the side of the bed and stretched, reaching as far as he could towards to the ceiling to loosen the muscles in his back, and, yes, he would certainly be sore in a few hours.

He took a careful glance over his shoulder when he heard the rumpling of sheets. Eames was now sitting up against the headboard, and Arthur could make out his shape in the dark, his eyes getting just enough light from the skyscraper shining in from across the street. And he was staring, maybe contemplating – Arthur wasn’t sure. But it made him feel naked from the inside out… which he sort of was after what had just transpired.

 “You alright, yeah?” Eames asked, his voice so gravelly and tired and sweet.

“Mmm,” was all Arthur could manage before he stood and trudged to the bathroom. “I’m good,” he offered over his shoulder before flicking on the light of the ensuite.

Arthur pulled a small towel from the shower-bar and began wetting it under warm water in the sink. And, when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, there was no doubt that he’d been properly fucked, hair askew and a blush in his cheeks and visible scratches here and there for good measure.

“I have to tell you,” Eames called out, and Arthur looked into the corner of the mirror to see Eames’ reflection; he was sitting on the bed still, staring out of the window, not knowing that Arthur could see him.

“Tell me what?” Arthur said, interested but somewhat anxious. He used the soaked towel to begin wiping the stickiness from his stomach and thighs and cock.  

Still, Eames was looking out of the window, thinking, and the sight of a man like that in deep thought wasn’t something Arthur wanted to disturb. He only wanted to admire it.

“I’m trying really hard not to consider making you a habit,” Eames finally said, and it was an obvious choice of carefully chosen words.

Arthur snickered and left the bathroom, tossing the towel to Eames before getting back into bed. He lay in silence for a moment, watching Eames clean himself and throw the towel to the floor. “I wouldn’t mind being considered a good habit,” he finally said, shutting his eyes. “As long as you let me sleep from time to time.”

“Oh, I can’t guarantee that,” Eames said, smile apparent in his voice. “Your arse is far too tempting to ignore.”

Arthur laughed, eyes still shut until Eames was curling up next to him, kissing him, and Arthur couldn’t think of a time where he’d kissed someone this much and felt okay with it.

“What time is your check out?” Eames asked, quiet and slipping a hand up the length of Arthur’s neck.

“Noon. My train’s not until one. And when is your plane to Chicago?”

“Unsure. I know a guy with a jet.”

Arthur opened his eyes with a laugh. “And how many friends do you have with airplanes?”

“I never said they were friends. Just guys who owe me favors.”

“And you cashed in those favors just to come see me, yeah?”

“Seemed worth it at the time.”

“And now?”

“Depends on if I get to shag you again.”

Arthur opened his eyes and raised a brow. “Oh really?”

And they both laughed.

“Yes, yes. It is entirely dependent on that,” Eames breathed, laying on his back and tucking his hands behind his head. “If I get to shag you again, then I’ll give tonight an eight and a half – which is still bullocks, mind you, because I made you lose your mind, if I do say so my-”

“Oh good Lord. Get on with it, man.”

Eames laughed, then sighed. “But, if I don’t, I’d have no choice but to give it a ten because…”

Arthur rested a hand on Eames’ stomach and rubbed him, because it felt so good to touch. “Because why?”

And, with a turn of his head and defenseless eyes, Eames said “Because it was the best shag I’ve ever had.”

And Arthur blushed. “I concur.”

Eames went back to sleep, and Arthur tried to do the same, but his curse was that he couldn’t rest once he gained any energy. And he still had a lot he needed to get done before he headed back to Boston.

Showered, shaved, and dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, he took his laptop and phone into the living room so that he didn’t wake Eames – Eames, who slept on his back and snored a bit and puckered his lips and still seemed to have dreams (unlike a lot of people in dreamsharing). Eames, who made Arthur strip in the moonlight, then made him come not once, and not twice, but three times like it was his fucking job.

And Eames, who woke up and showered at nine-thirty even, then came out wrapped in his towel with his hair wet, and kissed the side of Arthur’s neck like this was something they did every morning.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he said.

Arthur had no intentions of being seen this way – sitting in the lazy chair, dressed down with his feet tucked under him, glasses on and laptop out. His busy look. He could only imagine how boyish he seemed. “I wear them in the mornings when I don’t feel like putting in contacts.”

“What’s this?” Eames asked, grasping at either side of Arthur’s chair and gazing over his shoulder at the computer screen.

“Wire transfer for the team I just worked with.”

“That’s a lot of money to be trusted with.”

“Plan on mugging me?” Arthur said uneasily, because yes, there was quite a lot of money in his possession. No, he didn’t think Eames was going to mug him, but he did know that he made quite a bit more money than Eames did, and he still hadn’t gauged how Eames was about his pride.

“I hadn’t planned on it, no,” Eames laughed, and when Arthur turned to say something else, Eames was kissing him. Again. God, he kissed a lot.

And, Arthur blushed at how gentle he was. At how familiar he already felt. And he was suddenly wondering why. Why did Eames kiss him so much? What was that warmth that glowed at the bottom of Arthur’s stomach, spreading up his spine? This was just sex. This was convenience. This…this _thing_ shouldn’t illicit so much unwarranted touching and kissing and goddamn warmth.

And, Eames seemed to pale, noticing a cold film sweep right over Arthur’s demeanor. “Oi. Whatever I just did wrong, ignore it. I didn’t mean it.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You didn’t do anything.”

“You’re a shit liar.”

Arthur looked offended. “I’m a _great_ liar.”

“No, darling. _I’m_ a great liar. You’re just a _good_ liar.” He didn’t drop a beat. “Am I not allowed to kiss you?”

Arthur removed his glasses. “I didn’t say that.”

“No. You didn’t.” Eames huffed. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t say it.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Can we pretend for a moment that I’m much smarter than you think I am?”

“I think you’re perfectly smart.”

“And I think you are too, so when I ask you why I can’t kiss you, I should get a comprehensive answer.”

The air between them went stiller than it had been since Arthur first opened the door to let him. The tension was wary, not sexual, not needing. And it was uncomfortable. Because Eames was so very handsome and earnest and goddamn good-looking, still wet from his shower, tattooed more than Arthur might usually enjoy, but attractive nonetheless. Arthur wanted another chance to lick every trail of blank ink, and then, if there was time, he wanted to find every scar, every birthmark, every cigarette burn, and kiss those, too, and God, he wanted a lot of things.

“I don’t mind you kissing me,” Arthur said. “Still… you can’t blame me for being…” He didn’t finish, because he wasn’t sure how.

“I’m not going to ask you for more than you give me,” Eames said, and a subtle smile gained in his mouth and cheeks. “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to kiss you. I won’t see you again like this if you’d rather this be a one and done.”

Arthur didn’t mean to sputter, or look like he was desperate, but he piped up and said “I want to see you again, of course I…” He regained his composure. “Do you want this to be a one and done?”

Eames brought his fingers to his still curved lips – goddamn those full lips – and shook his head no. And those blue eyes fell down Arthur’s body for a moment then back up. “No,” he confirmed aloud. “I don’t want this to be a one and done.”

Arthur felt his throat going wet with anticipation, and when he realized he’d been holding his breath, he sighed and glanced at his computer screen. “We have an hour before we should get a move on…” And he looked back to Eames with as controlled of a look as he could muster, but still, his desire must have shown up in his eyes, because Eames raised a sharp brow, then nodded him over with an intrigued hum.

 


End file.
